


D's Drabble Drawer

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Drabble Collection, Drabbles, Established Phrack, F/M, Plot Bunnies - Freeform, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Prompt Fic, Romance, Smut, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-04 22:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13374201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: Does what it says on the tin; drabbles galore, mini-stories and the like! Generally prompt-inspired.





	1. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m starting this new story, which really will just be my personal drabble drawer for plot bunnies that are not quite ready to hop off into the big, bad world. I have no idea if this will hold regular updates, but I set the rating to Explicit just to be safe. They’ll be Phryne/Jack, for now, but who knows what the future holds?
> 
> First prompt is 'anger'.  
> -DVW

_‘Come not within the measure of my wrath.’_

— William Shakespeare, The Two Gentlemen of Verona

 

“Fine then, it’s over!”

“Fine!”

“FINE!”

The sound of the door to her boudoir slamming shut reverberated through her body, sending a chill along her spine. She exhaled in an attempt to relax the tenseness in her shoulders, but it only allowed for fresh air to be inhaled, filling her lungs with oxygen and her being with fury.

They had been lovers for over four months now, but they had been friends for over three years. Jack had not been able to ‘come after her’ for a good number or reasons (one being the new Chief Commissioner breathing down his neck and another was the fact that crime did not sleep). She’d understood, of course, although she had been disappointed.

They had written to each other though, during her journey to England, during her two month stay in London and while she had made her way home. Perfunctory telegrams had turned into friendly letters. And friendly letters had turned into each of them describing – in great detail – all of the things they’d like to do to each other (and had done to themselves in each other’s absence) upon her return.

Jack had been...inspiring, to say the least, and the past months had been more than she could have ever imagined. They had tried all of the things they’d described, and more. He was a patient lover, as insatiable as she (she’d always suspected it!) and simply had a wonderful imagination.

Of course, they had their arguments every now and again, these things were bound to happen. And Phryne was of the opinion that, if – on occasion – one did not argue with the people they loved, well, did they really love them at all?

This morning, however, everything had gone bloody backside over elbow.

She’d wanted for him to accompany her to the Annual Spring Dance her Aunt Prudence hosted. Of course she would want him there, it was as natural a thing to her as breathing; he was her partner and she had no qualms about being out in the open about their relationship, opinions be damned. He’d hesitated, stating he felt quite uncomfortable about the public eye, and mainly; he was worried about _her_ reputation. He was very much aware of the opinion of the upper class of society when it came to the two of them being together, and he didn’t want to cause Phryne any trouble.

Her reputation! It was almost laughable, if she weren’t so angry. He was just so damn stubborn! Then again, she was a force to be reckoned with in her own right when it came to stubbornness, so she figured it had only been a matter of time before the two Titans would clash.

Proclaiming that their relationship was over, however, was silly, even for her. She loved Jack, dearly and desperately, and she did not want for whatever it was between them to be over, at all!

She turned to face her vanity, leaning forward and steadying herself by placing her hands on the edge, trying to calm her irregular breathing, her wildly beating heart. Their fight had left her breathless, speechless and strangely excited. He’d exuded such masculinity, such feral dominance and she couldn’t help but being aroused because of it.

She barely had time to register the sound of a door swinging open before being slammed shut. She found herself bent over her vanity before she had taken her next breath; a strong, wide palm pressing her upper body into the sturdy wood of the vanity. She recognized the touch, the scent, the warmth of his hands as he touched her, and she relaxed ever so slightly before trying to get up.

He didn’t speak, he just pushed her down forcefully, her cheek pressed into the cold surface. Rucking up the material of her silk robe until the fabric bunched around her waist, sliding one large hand up the back of her thigh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

She was positively dripping, and he cursed as he encountered the evidence of her arousal on her thighs. He dropped his hands to tear down his fly, and in another heartbeat she could feel his cock nudging at her folds, his hands squeezing her hips. The fabric of his shirt tickled her thighs.

“This is _not_ over, do you hear me?!” he whispered harshly, before spearing himself inside of her wet heat in one hard, punishing thrust. She cried out at being filled so suddenly.

He took her, bent over her vanity, with fast, deep strokes that were clearly meant to rattle her, to send her hurling towards a climax at breakneck speed. It was hard, it was rough and it was exactly what she needed and when she let out a hoarse cry when her orgasm hit, she was fairly certain he had managed to catapult her into the stratosphere; she was seeing stars.

She was vaguely aware of his climax, following soon after, as she could feel his warmth filling her from the inside as his body slumped against her back.

For a while, the only sounds that could be heard were their ragged breaths.

Eventually, she let out a long, deep sigh.

He chuckled as he pulled away from her, and slipped out of her. She whimpered at the loss. He stepped out of his trousers and smalls, looking utterly ridiculous, dressed only from the waist up. Not to mention his socks and garters. She righted herself, then turned to face him.

“Does what just happened constitute as what you so aptly called ‘breakup sex’ earlier?” he asked, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk.

“Oh, darling, it does.” she purred contentedly whilst pushing his jacket off of his shoulders, down his arms until it fell to the floor. He kissed her, and she melted against his strong frame. She was so glad he'd agreed to their little roleplay.

“I must admit, I do now see its appeal. Not the breakup part, surely, but the anger—”

“ _Do_ you now?” Loosening his tie before flinging it across the room, earning her a squinted look, a slight tilt of the head.

“Mmmhmm. Although I do wonder; what follows after?” Untying the sash around her waist, before slipping the silk downwards, slithering to reveal her naked body underneath. Pressing open-mouthed kisses to the column of her throat as she rid him – finally – of his shirt, pleased to note he had foregone wearing an undershirt. Raking her nails across his chest, earning her a lovely hiss.

“Well, my dear Jack, we could try our hand at something called ‘makeup sex’...” she trailed off as he traced a single finger through her moist folds, distracting her. She was still sensitive, yet she ground against his hand.

“But?” he pressed, in more ways than one. She inhaled sharply.

“I’m not entirely sure you’re up to the job, after your recent performance. After all, you’re not getting any younger...” she goaded, an entirely too smug expression adorning her features. How she managed to maintain her air of utter elegance and delicate poise without wearing so much as a stitch of clothing was beyond him.

He threw her down roughly in the centre of the bed, where her body bounced a couple of times with the force of his pitch. She laughed – a rich, deep belly-laugh – and he smiled. He loved seeing her so carefree. For a brief moment, he stood at the end of the bed, admiring the way in which her breasts moved, before toeing off his socks and crawling on top of her. Their foreheads touched as she spread her thighs and stroked his length into hardness, then guided the tip of his rapidly hardening cock to rest at her wet entrance, marvelling at the wonderful friction of his cockhead against her sensitive little nub.

“Careful, Miss Fisher, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.” he rasped, before slowly - almost tenderly - pushing his way inside of her, her cheeky chuckle swiftly turning into a deep moan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m probably gonna go with [this](http://towriteprompts.tumblr.com/onewordprompts) list of prompts for inspiration, but if anyone has a nice suggestion, let me know?


	2. It's a wrap!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today’s prompts are _31\. Surprise_ and _93\. Birthday_ , because I figured; why the hell not use two in one go? Check the list at the end of Chapter 1. Anyone want to pick the next one?

_‘The secret to humour is surprise.’_

― Aristotle

 

Walking up the path that lead to the front door of his cottage in Richmond, Jack sighed. Home. Finally.

Today had been a dreadful day, and he was glad to see the back of it. Stacks of paperwork, a string of burglary cases, the Chief Commissioner droning on about Lord only knew what ( _and why was he still solving cases with a civilian?!_ ). In short; he was in a foul mood and ready for a night of quiet brooding.

He had half expected a visit from Miss Fisher today. He had hoped she would drop by to wish him a happy birthday, and perhaps to bring him some of Mr. Butler’s fine cooking as a birthday treat. But unfortunately, none of this had occurred, and he wondered if maybe he had been expecting too much in this stage of their relationship.

They had been dating – courting so to speak (Phryne had rolled her eyes at his use of the term) – for a few months now, ever since her return to Melbourne. Her trip to London had altogether taken up to four months from the day she had departed until her return to the Antipodes, and although they had been very happy and eager to see each other again, they had decided (albeit grudgingly where Phryne had been concerned) to take things slow and to get reacquainted, to get back to that cherished common ground.

Everything had been going splendidly as far as Jack was concerned. He had spent numerous nights at Wardlow, even though they hadn’t been working on a case together, which had always been a motive before. They’d shared quite a few delicious dinners (Jack wondered if he could persuade Mr. Butler to come and work for him), some very comfortable and unyielding drinks in her parlour, and a lot of wonderful kisses.

About a month ago had found them, late at night, in her parlour with the doors closed, him sitting on the chaise longue, her leaning into him as they were kissing slowly, savouring each moment. However, this night, their kisses had turned rather heated very quickly, and from one moment to the next, Jack had found himself with a lap full of Phryne. Their movements had become frenzied, grinding into one another, bodies trying to merge and clothing getting in the way. He’d just taken her plump nipple into his mouth when she’d asked him – breathless with arousal  and drunk on it – if he would come upstairs.

And even though he had been aroused and excited, he was also exhausted from working through Mount Paperwork all week.

It just hadn’t felt right.

About a week later, she had breezed into his office to invite him round for dinner (he’d declined, buried up to his ears in work), and he had simply been mesmerized by her beauty and the way in which she effortlessly made him want to be a part of her life forever. He’d kissed her, right there in his office with the door unlocked, had pressed her up against his desk, and it had nearly been his undoing.

He knew then that he was ready.

But now this gruesome murder case had gotten in the way, taking up most of his spare time. And although working with Phryne was as pleasant and as infuriating as always (and mildly distracting, as well), he hadn’t been anywhere near Wardlow in over two weeks.

Sliding his key into the lock of his front door, he turned and found it unlocked. He frowned in confusion and alarm, opening the door carefully with his one hand whilst cautiously reaching for his gun with the other. Closing the door behind him, his back towards it, he glanced around the narrow hallway until something sparkling caught his eye on the side table.

As he moved closer, he realised it was a piece of jewellery. This was distinctly odd; a thief who would actually leave behind a precious plunder, rather than stealing one. Dropping his keys onto the dish and his gun on the side table, he picked up the shiny accessory and it took only a second to register that he knew what this was; Phryne’s favourite fascinator. As he turned it around in his hand, he found a note attached to it. He recognized the neat and flamboyant handwriting immediately. The small card simply read;

_‘You fascinate me.’_

He smiled as his heart warmed at her sentiment. Holding onto the fascinator, he put away his hat and coat, then turned towards his hallway, leaving the lights off on purpose. He squinted in the dark, but as he walked up to the entrance to his living room, he noticed a pair of delicate black heels. Another note was attached;

_‘You always keep me on my toes (don’t ever stop).’_

He chuckled out loud, picked up the shoes by their dainty straps and soldiered on, playing along with her treasure hunt. Upon entering the living room, he quickly spotted her stockings, draped over the back of one of his leather wingback chairs (his favourite one, actually).

_‘I want to take stock of your physical inventory.’_

He grinned at her bold statement, then paused. He suddenly realised where this was going, and his heartbeat sped up significantly. Grabbing the stockings and throwing them over his arm, he continued his search, although he didn’t have to look very long. Near the bathroom door, he found his next clue in the shape of a lovely black beaded dress with silver details. He picked it up and folded it over his outstretched arm with care.

_‘I want to undress you.’_

He groaned as he imagined her naked body and his cock twitched. A few steps to the left, and he found her garter belt.

_‘You always guard me against danger (seriously, stop it).’_

He tried very hard to ignore the fact that he was holding a part of her undergarments in his hand as he added it to the pile on his arm. The final piece of clothing was to be located near his bedroom door. He bent down to pick up a lovely deep red, silk camisole, bringing the fabric up to his nose to inhale her scent; French perfume, a touch of jasmine and something not unlike a musky scent that was so uniquely Phryne, it made his mouth water and his cock harden further. The final card was what made him falter;

_‘I love you for your beautiful soul.’_

She loved him. She _loved_ him. She hadn’t actually said the words out loud, but she had written them down, and that had to count for something, correct? He almost wanted to jump with joy as his heart felt as though it was about to explode.

She loved him! And he loved her. This was the best birthday gift she could have bestowed upon him. And he was going to tell her so, right now. 

He was ready for this.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to his bedroom that had been left ajar.

“Surprise! Happy birthday, Jack.”

The pile of accumulated clothing dropped to the floor, along with his jaw.

He had not been ready for _this_.

His bedroom was basking in the glow of what must have been at least fifty candles, set up on his chest of drawers, the window sill, his nightstand, the floor...But that warm light all faded in comparison to the bright vision that greeted him from the centre of his bed.

She was wearing the tiniest pair of red lace knickers he had ever clapped eyes on (and even though this wasn’t saying much, he knew these were gloriously tiny by anyone’s standards), whilst her breasts were covered by a wide red ribbon that wrapped around her upper body. A big bow sat in the middle of her chest, in between her breasts, which were emphasized wonderfully by the tightness of the fabric on her body.

She rubbed her thighs together sensually, and he swallowed. He was surprised by the velocity of his cock hardening at record speed, feeling quite lightheaded all of a sudden.

“Come here, birthday boy. You have a gift to unwrap, and said gift is getting rather impatient at _present_.” she murmured saucily, beckoning him with one dainty finger.

He chuckled. Only Phryne could get away with being barely dressed, wrapped in a gaudy red ribbon, and still manage to sound completely calm and cocky about it, cracking wise jokes.

He loved her for it.

As she got off of the bed, he moved to stand in front of her, admiring her barely clad body up close for the first time. He could scarcely believe she was here, in his home no less. And with hardly any clothes on. He had dreamed about such a thing, but never in a million years had he thought that―

“Jack, you’re thinking. Stop it.” she chastised, before catching his lips in a searing kiss. Her hands found its way to his nape, tugging him closer still as the ribbon rustled between them, while his large hands were on the small of her back, roaming and venturing lower. Her tongue found its way into his mouth, sweeping the roof and duelling for dominance with his pliant muscle. His palms cupped her nearly naked arse and she ground herself against his erection. Somebody moaned, and he realised it had been him. Tearing his lips away from hers, he breathed her in, licking the damp skin under her ear.

She started rubbing him through his trousers in return.

“ _Fuck_ , Phryne...”

“Oh, you shall. I just want to unwrap this part of you first.” she quipped, before getting to work on his trouser fastenings whilst meeting his mouth for another demanding kiss. As she slipped his braces down to his arms he realised she must have rid him of his jacket already. He hadn’t even noticed. Come to think of it; where was his waistcoat?

“I thought it was _my_ birthday?” he panted against her moist lips, nearly going cross-eyed from the intense pleasure he was experiencing as she pulled down his trousers and smalls in one go and touched his hard cock for the very first time. He hissed as she traced the veins on the underside of his shaft, before giving him a few firm, experimental strokes whilst licking her lips.

He groaned, looking into her heavy-lidded eyes and finding nothing but love. His heart skipped a beat (or two). 

Maintaining eye contact, she dropped to her knees, rubbing her thumb over his glans, spreading the pre-cum, reverently stroking his length once more.

“Oh, believe me darling; it _is_.” she purred, before taking him into her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday Jack, you lucky bastard.


	3. Theatrics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [propangel ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propangel/pseuds/propangel), who chose prompt _29\. Melodramatic_. I love writing prompt-inspired ficlets! Who would’ve thought? Which one’s next (check the list [right here](http://towriteprompts.tumblr.com/onewordprompts))?

_‘Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,_  
_But not expressed in fancy—rich, not gaudy,_  
_For the apparel oft proclaims the man.’_

 _(Spend all you can afford on clothes,_  
_But make sure they’re quality, not flashy,_  
_Since clothes make the man.)_

― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

 

He was hiding. There was absolutely no other way of putting it. He was hiding from a svelte, independent spitfire of a woman, and he felt ridiculous, not to mention five years old. He was a bloody coward, but for once in his life, it was for good reason. There was no way in _hell_ he was going to show her – leaving the sanctity of this bathroom – what he looked like in this...this... _attire_. He felt he was actually being generous by using that term to describe the material that currently clung to his body like a second skin.

He had taken refuge in the en suite of her guestroom upon hearing her knock, announcing her entrance before barging in there as if she owned the―

 _Ah_. Well then.

He’d locked the door for good measure, just in case she would come charging in here as well. Charming freight train that she was.

He liked the boots. The boots were nice. They were made of a fine brown leather and looked sturdy enough. They were comfortable, warm and of a nice height, ending a little above mid-calf. This, however, was where the list of things he liked about this costume came to an abrupt end.

He looked at himself in the mirror. A beautiful arrangement of greens was staring back at him. It was just unfortunate that all of these lovely colours had come together to create the outfit of his nightmares. The shirt was a dark olive-green and was made out of the finest cotton he had ever seen. It felt light on his skin, but the puffy sleeves turned him right off.

And then, there were the tights. He supposed they had been named aptly, for they clung to his toned thighs the way Miss Fisher would cling to his arm. Not that he minded. About Miss Fisher. He _did_ mind the tights. Very much so, in fact. They were made out of some sort of velvet material, the shade of green matching the shirt, and they were tucked into the boots. They fastened with laces near his groin, outlining each and every shape of his lower body.

Still, he could have lived with the tights, if only the tunic had been long enough to cover his, well, protrusions. It was short, and although it just about covered the essentials when stationary (barely), walking around in the bathroom had proved too much of a challenge for the fabric. The forest-green tunic was hemmed with brown embroidered details and the shape of the collar reminded him of the battlements of a castle. It was finely made, to be sure. If only it weren’t so damn short, exposing the outline of certain body parts he preferred to keep hidden. Whatever happened to liking a never-ending source of mystery?

Staring back at his reflection, he realised he was very likely the most miserable Robin Hood that had ever been portrayed. His instructed goal was probably to give to both the rich _and_ the needy. The rich and the needy being the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher in this scenario.

He felt the bow was a bit much. And what was with the funny quiver ‘round the back? It had actually been supplied with proper arrows and he had one very specific target in mind.

“Well then Jack, what do you say?” he heard her ask through the closed door, her voice slightly muffled but clear all the same. He figured she must have been pressed up against it from the other side. She sounded giddy with excitement and curiosity.

There were several things he would like to say. The phrase “Have you gone mad?!” came to mind, but he refrained from saying it out loud, not wanting to get into an argument with the force of nature that was Phryne Fisher, even though he strongly suspected a tornado was about to be unleashed.

“Words fail me, Miss Fisher.” His quip was so dry, he could have used it to start a fire.

“Jack, would you be a darling and come out please? It’s only me.” she placated.

It _was_ only her, and this was what worried him. There was no possible way for him to step out into that bedroom with whatever was left of his dignity still intact. Not to mention his modesty. He suspected she knew as much, and he wasn’t about to tempt fate, nor his virtue or his sanity, although he figured the latter was probably a lost cause already. Just standing here in one of her bathrooms, wearing this preposterous excuse for a costume, was plenty proof of this fact.

“I’m absolutely certain it will look positively lovely on you! I made sure only the softest, shiniest and most _luxurious_ fabrics were used.” She dropped her voice to a lower register as she spoke, as though she were caressing his velvet-encased manhood with her voice, her tongue...He bit back a groan.

“ _But not expressed in fancy—rich, **not** **gaudy**.._.” he quoted, disdain dripping from every syllable.

“Jack, honestly, you’re being melodramatic.” He could practically hear the eye-roll that accompanied her accusation. “It can’t be all that bad, surely?”

However; it _was_ all that bad, and then some.

Somehow, about a month ago – after solving the ‘Percussor-case’ – she had managed to talk him into allowing her to choose a costume for him. Jane had invited him to her birthday party, and he’d accepted the invitation with his usual politeness and propriety. You’d think he would’ve learned his lesson after the whole Marc Antony fiasco, but somewhere between his third and fourth martini his sense of reason must have abandoned him. His lack of focus may also have had something to do with the manner in which she had boldly suggested she would need to take his ‘measurements’. _All_ of them. At which point he had stumbled to his feet and out the door, her rich laughter following him from where she had remained seated.

“Is the cut bothering you? I assure you, I gave the seamstress the exact measurements you provided to me, right down to the size of your―”

“Miss Fisher!” he hissed, feeling strangely violated.

“I was going to say; right down to the size of your _shoes_ , Jack.”

“...”

“Well, if you’re not coming out, would you mind terribly if I came in? I’m sure I could be of some... _assistance_.” He could just imagine the sly, feral smile on her face.

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Fisher, thank you, as I refuse to remain dressed in this ridiculous fashion for another minute.”

“Is that an invitation?” she practically purred.

“No, it's a negation.” he grunted.

“Fine Jack, be that way. Just remember that you promised Jane you would attend her party tomorrow night and that a costume is required.” she stated haughtily, putting harsh emphasis on the last letter of his name to vocalise her displeasure.

“I’ll happily attend the party, but I _will_ make arrangements for a different costume.”

He couldn’t quite make out her next words – as she muttered them under her breath, apparently moving away from the door as the sound of her voice became more distant – but it sounded suspiciously like “The hell you will.”

“What was that?”

His question was followed by silence.

“Phryne?”

“I’ll be in my room if you do decide to change your mind, Jack.” Her statement was delivered with an air that left no room for argument. It said: ‘ _This is not over yet, and I am displeased with you’_. She was overreacting, surely. She’d always had quite the penchant for the dramatic. He could hear the sound of a door opening and closing. Distantly, similar actions were being repeated, only this time the dull thuds came from further away. Then, the room fell silent once more.

Steeling himself, he unlocked the bathroom door and opened it, warily re-entering the luxurious guest quarters. Miss Fisher was nowhere to be seen, but he checked underneath the bed, just in case. Pleased to find that she had indeed left him to his own devices (and probably his own demise, as well), he brushed down the costume (he steadfastly refused to think of it as ‘his’) and took in his surroundings.

A furtive look around the room provided him with two rather important clues.

One; there was a neatly folded pile of clothes on the made bed, right where he had left his before changing into the costume. However, they appeared to have transformed into a set of expensive, intricate lady’s garments. Garments she had been wearing just now. Including lingerie. He swallowed as he resisted the urge to reach out and stroke the cream-coloured satin knickers that were placed rather prominently on top of the neat pile, taunting him. He had not yet given into the sweet temptation that was Phryne Fisher, and he wasn’t about to start now.

He was a grown man. He could do this.

Besides, he had won the discussion; this round was his. There was absolutely no need for him to be thinking about a _nude_ Phryne Fisher in the room just across the way. He would not give in and admit defeat. He had no reason to go there, neither mentally nor physically. The burgeoning evidence of his arousal – straining against the lace-up fastenings of the velvety tights – simply happened to disagree.

Two; his clothes were missing. Of course they were.

He scrubbed his face with his hand and sighed dramatically, before making his way towards her boudoir like a lamb towards the proverbial slaughter.

_Frailty, thy name is man, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack’s final thought is another quote from Hamlet, although it has been altered to suit this particular occasion (and gender). I used [this picture ](http://kid101.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/robin-hood.jpg) as inspiration for Jack’s costume. I just allowed for Phryne to take liberties with the length of the tunic.


	4. Tender loving care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful [justsare ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsare/pseuds/justsare), who asked for prompts _114\. Dominant_ and _152\. Tender_. It’s a shorter one, but I hope you’ll enjoy it all the same!

_‘There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.'_

― Jane Austen, Emma

_‘Love does not dominate; it cultivates.’_

 ― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 

The first thing she’d noticed about him upon their first meeting were his hands. Not his penetrative stare or his stoic presence, nor the faint smell of his pomade and what she’d assumed had been a trace of his cologne, or his dark, striped tie. His hands were a thing of beauty. She was inexplicably drawn to things she considered to be beautiful, unable to ignore the magnetic – and often dangerous – pull, like a magpie on the hunt for anything shiny.

They were quite large, she’d noted, with wide palms and his skin a few shades darker than her own. The tendons on the back of them were sinewy, a few sparse scars, his fingers long and agile, certain of their purpose. The way he’d clutched the brim of his fedora in an almost white-knuckled grip, the way those hands had ushered her towards the bathroom door and the way he’d held out his warm hand in polite – if somewhat forced – greeting. His hands were always warm. When he’d held her smaller hand in his, albeit briefly, the tiny spark that had passed between them had surprised her and had caused him to abbreviate the shaking of her hand.

She’d acutely been aware of the loss and this had unsettled her greatly.

From there on out, she had attempted to recreate that spark by casually touching him, as often as she physically could and as intimately as propriety would allow.

She’d never cared much for propriety.

She did however – contrary to popular belief – care deeply about his boundaries, his sensibilities and his stubborn notion of nobility. Therefore, she had never taken the initiative to take that next, big step. Well, she might have instigated it. Once or twice. But she respected him far too much to push him towards something he clearly was not yet ready to name. She did not mean to overpower him in such a manner.

Jack was not a dominant man. His presence, however, was positively domineering. Commanding of attention, although she very much doubted he was even aware of the awe-inspiring effect he had on people, let alone her. An air of confidence surrounded him, oozing from his every pore whenever he was on the job, even though she knew he – more often than not – strongly doubted his own capabilities. One of his strengths was to never let these doubts, the fractures in his facade, show in the face of battle. He had men to lead so that they would follow without question, and they needed his strong leadership. Yet, for all his – sometimes artificial – confidence, he was never arrogant, never conceited. She admired this trait, the endearingly habit to treat everyone – disregarding class, age or upbringing – as an equal. She’d like to think they were very similar in that regard. It warmed her heart that he would never look down upon anyone.

Well, with the exception of certain specific offenders of the long arm of the law.

His arms, his hands, all of his motions when on duty spoke of an immaculate assuredness. The movements were simple, yet classic and completely beguiling in their masculinity. She’d simply observed him once, during a briefing on a raid, when he’d informed the constabulary on site about their next course of action. The way in which he had divided their tasks, handed out orders, and pointed at a map with his dextrous fingers – completely buttoned-up in a suit of terse discipline – had made her squirm in frustrated arousal.

Yet, there was an underlying tenderness in the language of his body that was undeniably entwined with his movements and betrayed his more noble, gentle character, his loving, careful nature. His passion to pursue what was right, to fight for what he believed in, to combat what was wrong. It was why he was such a fine Detective, and such a good man.

He was always tender when touching her, even when he wasn’t purposely trying to be – when roughly pulling her out of harm’s way (how dare he?), when grabbing her by the arm to try and stop her from executing another rather brilliant scheme, when holding her to affirm that she was okay, that she was real – his touches were consistent in their characteristics, overflowing with a softness, with a kindness of heart, with care. They bespoke of an instinctual need, a primal and subconscious urge to feel her quickening pulse just beneath the surface of her ivory skin. A skin that protected her heart – although recently said heart threatened to beat right out of her chest in his presence – a skin that represented her bodily armour, yet fell apart completely by just the merest touch of his callused fingertips, his breath ghosting near her ear, an accidental bump of his hip into hers. A useless pile of rusty plates at her feet, amidst the messy scrapyard of her torn and scattered feelings.

She longed to know his intimate touch. Would he be tender there, too? Would he stroke her skin softly, carefully, feathered wisps of reverence designed to drive her to utter madness? What would it feel like, to be joined intimately with the man she cared so much about? To merge their bodies into one, to feel him, an intense heat at the very core of her being? She didn’t think the words to describe the overwhelming immensity of her feelings for him had yet been invented. Would he be silent at the ultimate cusp, at the pinnacle of his pleasure, or would he cry out in unrestrained abandon? Would he allow for her to hold him in the trembling aftermath, cradling him to her damp bosom and whispering loving, sweet nothings in his ear?

“Are you coming, Miss Fisher?”

He looked at her, expectantly, an outstretched hand in her general direction, standing at the edge of the meadow where the body had been found earlier this evening. Although devoid of any further motion, that firm hand called her, beckoned her and she realised she was but a mere servant, submissive to his cry, his need. Powerless against her own feelings for him.

She found she didn’t mind, for he would never attempt to dominate her.

Unless, of course, she were to ask him to.

She tucked her hand safely in the crook of his elbow, smiling contentedly to herself and then at him, allowing for the familiar and welcome thrill – that spark between them – to become all-encompassing for just this once. It calmed her, yet it excited her all the same, the current coursing through her veins and setting her body ablaze, her already frayed nerve-endings humming pleasurably.

She shuddered ever so slightly, the infinitesimal but infinite shock gently reverberating from her body to his.

He gazed at her, briefly, as they walked towards his car, a look of mild surprise in his eyes even though his general demeanour gave nothing away. It was a tender and soothing regard, yet it exuded a sudden awareness, the desire in his eyes all at once crystal clear to her, dominant in its unexpected appearance in his pools of liquid blue.

She squeezed his arm.

He gently pulled her closer to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Which one’s next (check the list [right here](http://towriteprompts.tumblr.com/onewordprompts))?


	5. A leaf on the wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this would not lea(f)ve me alone; prompt _116\. Green._ A longer one because I have been absent from posting for over a week.  
>  Jack tends to the garden. Phryne ‘assists’ to the best of her ability. Non-established Phrack.
> 
> Check the prompts [here](http://towriteprompts.tumblr.com/onewordprompts)

_“Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners.’_

— Shakespeare, Othello

 

The late September sun was delightful. She loved winter and snow, but the approach of summer always made her inexplicably happy and giddy.

Spring had literally sprung upon them this year, and all the vegetation around Wardlow had suddenly started growing and sprouting without so much as a warning or a slow prelude. It was a lovely sight, to be sure, but it was too extensive of a task to thrust upon the singular shoulders of Tobias Butler. He’d never asked for her help – and she doubted she was of much help to begin with – but when she’d offered he had almost seemed relieved.

Of course by offering her help she’d meant hers and Jack’s. Well, mostly Jack’s. She’d planned on sitting up on one of her sunbeds, a refreshing glass of lemonade in one hand, to keep an eye (or both) on Jack as he ploughed on. Unfortunately, he was not having any of it and had forced her to roll up her sleeves – figuratively speaking – to get down to the nitty-gritty.

She knew Jack loved gardening. She’d visited his home in Richmond, once, to drop off some case files, and she’d caught him mowing the lawn, looking ridiculously content. They’d had tea in his neat garden and he’d told her all about the flowers, plants and – to her horror and his amusement – insects.

One could say he had green fingers.

She however, was completely green when it came to matters of gardening. She wanted to learn, she did, but she could think of so many other fun activities for her and her stoic Inspector.

So it really was too bad that she was currently unable to enjoy the pleasant spring heat, as she was stuck in the gardening shed near the kitchen. However, she was stuck in there with a certain Detective Inspector and he was looking positively delectable today. Gone was the buttoned-up officer of the law she’d come to know so well. His replacement was a dashing man with slightly looser curls than was his custom, wearing worn brown tweed trousers, braces, an old white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and sturdy brown leather boots. The top buttons of his shirt were undone and the sight of his collarbone, not to mention the sparse chest hairs peeking out from the top of his undershirt were terribly distracting.

She’d already cut her finger, twice, dreamily gazing over her shoulder at his magnificent arse as he bent over the workbench to plant the rose cuttings. There was a small bloodstain on her light blue sundress, as she’d wiped her finger on the flowing fabric in a moment of inattentiveness.

She was repotting hydrangeas, or at least, that’s what she was attempting to do. She had been upset with Jack when he’d told her he’d see to creating the plant cuttings of some of the rose bushes from the garden. It seemed easy enough, and now she was stuck doing the hard labour.

She hadn’t the faintest idea what a plant cutting was, but obviously she had neglected to mention this to Jack. Apparently it meant creating tiny baby-plants out of the big mother-plant. For what purpose or to what end, she had not a clue. There were plenty of beautiful roses growing wild and free (a little too wild at the moment, hence their joint efforts) in the large gardens at both the back and the front of Wardlow, and she saw no point in adding more. Jack, however, had insisted this was necessary in order to keep the plants healthy and to assure one always had enough new ones at hand.

He’d mentioned it was a calming practice, taking care of the cuttings until they were large enough to be relocated from pot to solid soil.

She’d snorted.

Mr. Butler was tending to the hedges and the roses at the far end of the garden. She could just make out his figure across the way. She was facing the small window – sunlight streaming in and illuminating the specs of dust floating around – working at the makeshift wooden counter and casting longing glances through the window. The blue sky, the green grass, all of it was calling her. Freedom was so close!

Behind her, Jack was humming softly and mostly to himself as he worked. She doubted he was even aware of it and it warmed her heart. It felt right, this. This thing, situation, thing. She smiled, trying her absolute best not to ruin the next hydrangea as he had entrusted her with this task and she did not want to mess it up. They really did come in the most vibrant shades of pinks, purples and blues, she mused. Maybe she could use the colour palette as inspiration for a new dress...

She looked out of the window once more, imagining a low, dipping neckline, delicate straps, material that flowed around her body like the petals of a flower, dancing on the wind. She imagined full lips, tracing the material from her neck, along the neckline, across her breastbone...She could almost see why Jack found this whole gardening-business relaxing.

That is, until she cut her finger – for the third time in a row – in an attempt to trim this godforsaken monstrosity.

“Fine, I give up. You win!” she exclaimed, slamming her cutting shears down onto the counter, eyeing the unsuspecting hydrangea with a narrow-eyed glare whilst sucking her injured finger into her mouth, staining it with her red lipstick.

She barely noticed Jack, who’d wiped his hands on his trousers and had come to stand beside her. He gently grabbed her hand, to place a sweet kiss on her injured finger, regarding her with a soft look that made her heart skip a beat, before dropping her hand. A faint blush adorned his cheeks.

“No, you’re not. Here, I’ll help you.”

She was completely dumbstruck, for once, as he manoeuvred to stand behind her, his arms reaching around her to hand her the shears. She remained motionless as her finger tingled pleasantly.

“I said I’d help you, not do it for you, Miss Fisher. Come along, shears at the ready, please.”

She could feel his chest pressed against her back and it did terrible things to her focus. She barely registered his request to grab the shears, and as she did she noticed his bare forearms. Funny, how something quite as mundane as a forearm could be completely arousing because it was Jack’s. The contrast between their skin tones struck her; pale ivory against sun-kissed bronze.

“Why are you putting so much effort into this plant, Inspector?” she asked, revelling in his sudden proximity. He smelled of Jack; clean, honest sweat, a faint trace of pomade and books. He smelled of safety. Of comfort.

Of home.

“It is important to ensure it is...properly prepared,” he said, and she could hear the smirk on his face. He pointed to a few twigs that needed cutting and she obliged.

“Why?” she queried, wondering if his fondness of _preparation_ extended to other areas of his life. She suspected (hoped and prayed) it did.

“It needs to be trim, Miss Fisher, so it is as good as new,” he explained patiently, showing her another twig that needed trimming.

“For what, Jack?”

“Well, it has to be _inserted_...into fertile soil, in order for it to continue growing and blossoming.”

Infuriating, arousing man. He was teasing her!

“And what about the baby-plants over there, Jack? Do they need to be fertile, too? That’s rather a lot to ask of a baby-plant, is it not?”

He chuckled, and she could feel the vibrations from his chest ripple through her body. A faint throbbing made its presence known at her core as he grabbed her hand to show her the proper way to cut the thin branches. The rough texture of his skin against hers was steadily grating away at her sanity.

“The ‘baby-plants’, Miss Fisher, are for propagation purposes. Cut right there.”

“You make it sound about as enticing as that fungus you showed me earlier, growing on that tree.”

She cut.

“Ciliatus, of the genus Polyporus, actually,” he rumbled in her ear. She clutched the shears in an almost white-knuckled grip, vividly remembering a different kind of genus and an almost-kiss. The tension between them was palpable, as though the recollection of their shared memory was making it tangible. Regarding her own hands, she realised his had stopped moving altogether, placed on the edge of the counter, caging her in.

She shivered.

“As for the ‘baby-plants’, their propagation is completely asexual, I assure you, Miss Fisher,” he spoke in that low voice that made her knees wobbly, hesitantly nuzzling the skin underneath her ear.

She thought she would come apart from just the sound of his voice, strained and deep.

She turned in his arms, the desire in her eyes mirrored in his, grounding her. She found his doubtfulness adorable. His hands came to rest upon her hips instinctually, before quickly attempting to remove them, worrying he’d stained her dress. She kept them there, covering the backs of his hands with her palms. When she was certain he would not take them away, she slid her hands around his neck, her fingertips teasing the short, coarse hair at his nape, marking him with the dirt on her digits. She brushed her breasts against his chest, only a few flimsy layers of cloth separating skin from skin. His sharp inhale made her press closer. Her nipples strained against the silk of her camisole, the heat of his chest scorching them. She moaned softly, and his hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer, the beginnings of his arousal pulsing against the juncture of her thighs.

“It’s a good thing we’re not plants, then. Isn’t it, Inspector?” she practically purred, sliding her hands down over his shoulders, to toy with the neckline of his damp undershirt, to run her fingertips across the exposed strip of smooth skin beneath his collarbone.

“It is indeed, Miss Fisher,” he rasped, moving his hands backwards to cup her arse in his firm grip.

Her eyes fluttered shut involuntarily as he leaned in, until she could almost taste his breath on her tongue.

A brisk knock at the open door caused the two of them to jump. Phryne would have laughed at the man’s insistence on propriety by knocking at a door that was already open, but at the moment she was too put-out.

“Excuse me, Miss. Inspector, if you would you be so kind as to assist me with a rather stubborn rose bush? I have been trying to dig it out, but thus far to no avail. I suspect some tenacious roots,” the older gentleman spoke, diplomatically regarding the cuttings to the left as he addressed the pair, small drops of sweat visible on his forehead as he reached for a handkerchief to wipe them away.

Jack had hardly ever been more grateful for the man’s utter discretion as he used this moment to extract himself from Phryne’s ardent embrace, composing himself and barely succeeding as his eyes met hers. He had to look away, lest he would push poor Mr. Butler out and have his way with her on the bench amidst the cuttings. He dejectedly followed the loyal servant out the door and towards the far end of the garden, rolling his shoulders back as he went, taking a few deep breaths.

Phryne sighed, then smiled to herself, regarding the baby-plants.

The seeds had been carefully planted – by both of them – over the course of the past months, and she, for one, was more than ready to reap the benefits.

The look Jack sent her, looking back at her over his shoulder as he exited the shed, told her he very much felt the same way.

Fertile soil, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try and get back to the requests ASAP, but life has been busy this past week. Good things, I hope, so bear with me please!


End file.
